


By a Silver Spoon (And Fork)

by GwiYeoWeo



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Fluff and Humor, M/M, momma always said the way to a man's heart is thru his stomach, noctis can be sly, nyx is just a touch slow, said noctis probably
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2020-01-13 11:28:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18468022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GwiYeoWeo/pseuds/GwiYeoWeo
Summary: “You want your Crown Prince to die from poison?”“Well, no, but — don’t you have people specifically for this? Like that advisor of yours.” Nyx was a hundred percent sure this was out of bounds for his station. He’s also two hundred percent sure all this had been taste-tested for both flavor and poison already.Bored and starving, Nyx is stuck guarding the Prince’s chambers as punishment duty.Just, he never expected a lunch date.





	By a Silver Spoon (And Fork)

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this [post here.](http://gwiiyeoweo.tumblr.com/post/184187579248/the-modern-typewriter-i-think-you-need-to-taste)  
> A little self indulgent piece because as much as i love nyx the cool, galahdian hunk of a babe, i also want to see him as a blushing maiden LOL

It's his second day of babysitting.

Nyx shifted his weight between his feet. He’d been standing at parade rest for a good hour at least, staring at nothing but the ornate wall in front of him — but even fancy walls got boring, real fast. Maybe it’s the delirium getting to him, but he thought he could see tiny scratch marks and remnants of green wax in the deep mahogany all from a decade ago, when the tiny terror known as the Prince had gone on a rampage with his new sixty-four piece box of crayons and had scribbled on the walls on the _entire_ floor. No matter the elbow grease, some things just couldn’t be scrubbed out, the cleaning staff had bemoaned. Those were some damn good quality crayons if it managed to survive all those ten years, Nyx thought. Then again, nothing less was appropriate for royalty, even if he was a petulant child.

The hallway was decorated enough, with its golds and silvers and portraits of old kings and queens, but _damn_ was this boring. That was the point of punishment duty, he knew, but he didn’t have to like it. Would it hurt them to at least play some music? He had half a mind to maybe drop that in the scuffed up opaque “Suggestions” box back in HQ, complete with some cheesy propaganda poster taped to the wall above it. But if he knew Captain Drautos, then they would definitely take him up on his advice and play elevator music just to spite him.

So Nyx threw that idea into the garbage bin where all of his other half-assed plans went to, and he let his eyes roam down the hallway. His gaze traced the smoky gray lines of the marble floor, too clean and meticulously kept as the Lucians liked their pristine homes to be, and followed their wayward paths to where they connected and entwined and split off again. He saw a speck of dirt and idly wondered how long that would even last before the Citadel's cleaning staff made their rounds, sweeping and fussing over every speck of dust, and he swore they had some sort of superhuman ability to detect any and all forms of imperfection that dared marred their floors.

When he moved on from admiring — judging, scrutinizing, same thing — the impeccable shining floors that reflected the shine and glamor of the chandeliers above, he took an interest in a large vase overstuffed with flowers. He recognized the bright dahlias and white-tipped zinnias, flowers his mother liked to tend during the summer, as well as the round puffy alliums Selena was partial to. But he's not surprised to see some blooms he doesn't recognize, having never seen them anywhere in Galahd. He suspected a couple of them to not even be native to Lucis.

He'd gone nearly mad from counting the individual petals of a purple coneflower, a feat difficult given the distance between him and the vase but he’s so bored out of his mind he had tried anyway, when he heard the rumble of a metal cart and sharp clicks of polished shoes hitting the floor. Nyx snapped his attention to farther down the hall when a manservant rounded the corner, pushing a steel trolley toward him. Not him, he corrected himself, but to the door, to the Prince.

The Prince who Nyx was stuck with guard duty for, standing at attention right beside his door as punishment for going against direct orders and sneaking behind enemy lines when he was explicitly told to stay and wait but he was too stubborn of an ass and had a hero complex. According to Pelna.

The servant didn't even nod a greeting, or acknowledged Nyx at all for that matter, but walked on by and stopped only to knock at the Prince's chamber doors, a quick rhythm of three before announcing lunch has arrived.

 _‘Rude,’_ Nyx thought, keeping his eyes forward. The one who brought the Prince's dinner last night had the decency to smile at him. At least half of the Crownsguard would have said a “hello” in passing, but he had learned some of the more… _cushy_ employees to be more snide with that better-than-thou attitude just because they could keep their manicured hands clean of war and bloodshed, safe in their high glass towers and soft downy beds. He had also learned to stop caring for their opinions.

He ignored the tell-tale click of the door opening and the rattle of plates and silverware as the cart jostled into the Prince's chambers. He counted down the seconds it took for the food to be set up, for the manservant to finally leave — without so much a look or a nod for Nyx, as expected — which took about four minutes, thirty-three seconds. Huh, that’s record time.

The door had been shut as the man left, but it had been long enough for the aroma of the Prince's meal to snake through and attack Nyx's senses. It wasn't his usual fanfare and the smell could obviously have used some spice, but he had only some buttered toast and coffee to keep him running for the rest of his shift, another horrible five hours tacked onto his already six, and he'd be a damned liar if he didn't say the food called out to him like a siren did to a lone man at sea. He was pretty sure the Prince was human, though his prowess with a sword and warp strikes made him more of a living weapon than some pampered royal brat, but he sure felt like a lone man in an ocean of hunger right about now.

 _‘Just five more hours, Nyx, then you can go grab some skewers and a nice cold one,’_ he tried to reassure himself. Five hours seemed like a lifetime away.

But not even five _minutes_ later, the door opened again. His body was hidden away, but the Prince's face popped out from the doorway, dark messy hair framing his young features. He's biting down on his lower lip, hesitation fighting behind those bright eyes as he looked to be struggling on his words.

Nyx took pity on the kid and helped him out, taking the initiative and voicing Noctis’ concerns. “Something wrong, Highness?”

Despite what the tabloids liked to say, Prince Charmless here was no suave bachelor with a silver tongue, but rather a socially awkward duckling — a cute duckling, but still awkward. Nyx had learned rather early, just how inept he could be, a stark contrast to the smooth and charismatic idol the public liked to paint him as. (But that lent itself as a different sort of charm, he thought.)

“No.” The Prince’s reply came too quickly, and he knew it, wincing at his own tert response.

“Planning an afternoon escape then? Don’t know if that’s in today’s schedule.”

“Shut up, Ulric. Just,” he huffed in exasperation, “Just come inside. _It’s an order_.”

But Nyx had also learned, just how quick and fiery the Prince could be, how quickly he could warm up once that first wall was conquered. How Prince Noctis hated being called by his titles and honorifics, much preferring to short nicknames or even teasing monikers. How he liked to put up a daring or bratty front in order to hide his softer and affectionate gestures.

As Noctis retreated back into his chambers, Nyx tossed a wary glance down both ends of the hallway. He wasn’t supposed to leave his station and abandon his guard duties; if someone caught him missing, well, guard duty was torture enough. He wasn’t sure what other hell they could come up with, but he sure as shit had no intention of finding out. With a long-suffering sigh, he broke out of parade rest and entered the Prince’s rooms.

“Alright, Your Highness, mind telling me why I’m risking more punishment duty?”

“Knock off with the titles and maybe I will, _hero.”_

“As you wish, Noctis.” When Noctis narrowed his eyes, “Okay, fine, _Noct.”_

Nyx rolled his eyes but not without witnessing the grand splendor of the Prince’s rooms. He had only stepped in here maybe two times before, but the grandeur of it all still caught his breath. It’s like a small apartment more than a room, if anything, with its adjoining kitchen area and wide living space. The windows that stretched from ceiling to floor let in plenty of light, and he wondered how often those get cleaned considering how spotless the glass and wine red curtains were. The crystal chandeliers were on, regardless of the sunlight filtering in, and they’re so large and heavy he was just a teensy bit paranoid of them crashing down on him. And of course, there’s the characteristic silvers and golds that somehow always made their way into every Citadel decor, shining bright and stark against the Lucian blacks and mahogany hardwood.

“I need you to taste this for me.”

Nyx was reigned back in, and his eyes settled back on Noctis, perched at a table with a small buffet of food spread before him. He didn't even recognize half of the dishes, but he could pick out a few Lucian favorites among them all, and maybe a bastardized version of Galahdian fare.

“I — uh, what?” He said, taking a few steps forward regardless. He almost wanted to look around, to make sure it was _him_ Noctis was talking to.

The confusion must have shown on his face, because it’s Noctis’ turn to roll his eyes. Nyx watched as the Prince dug into a bowl of what looked to be a hearty curry, a golden sauce piled thick onto his spoon.

“You want your Crown Prince to die from poison?” Noctis elaborated, lifting his brow in a teasing attempt of an accusation.

“Well, no, but — don’t you have people specifically for this? Like that advisor of yours.” Nyx was a hundred percent sure this was out of bounds for his station. He’s also two hundred percent sure all this had been taste-tested for both flavor and poison already.

“Ignis is busy. So are you gonna try it or what?” His words came out with annoyed impatience, and Noctis looked almost ready to just chuck the spoon at him.

So before he’s pelted with rice and sauce, Nyx conceded and leaned over, hand reaching for the spoon. Except Noctis swiftly swatted his hand away and raised the spoon up to the man’s lips, at which Nyx shot a miffed _look_ . Noctis’ resolve didn’t crumble at the accusatory glare, however, and Nyx was forced to shake his head in defeat before parting his lips for his _Prince_ to feed _him._ There was probably some rule about this in the Glaive handbook, but Nyx never did get past the first two pages.

 _“Six,_ that’s good,” he nearly moaned. It’s hot, of course, freshly served from the Citadel’s finest chefs, but soft and savory. The sauce had a slight kick to it, unlike any curry he’s familiar with and definitely not to par with Galahdian cuisine, yet it’s exquisite in its own way. He stopped himself from thinking anymore of it, when he remembered the ungodly sound he just made. He hid his face behind a curled fist and a fake cough. “Uh, I mean, it tastes fine to me.”

Contrary to Nyx’s expectations, Noctis avoided any teasing remarks about his slip-up. Instead, he looked over the selections on his table with a seriousness usually reserved for pouring over important documents or revising future amendments and bills, not for picking at food. He poked at another dish, a fish fillet piled high with herbs and some finely chopped vegetables, before portioning a bit onto his fork and raising it once again to Nyx. “Okay, then what about this?”

Nyx took it without resistance this time, though he was a bit surprised as to how easily he submitted. It’s tender, unbearably so, delicate and fine as the light white sauce accompanying it, and the whole thing practically melted in his mouth. “This — this is fine too,” he managed to say.

Noctis would look smug with that smile, were it not for the hint of softness around his eyes. “Good. Okay, sooo — oh, try this too,” he said, reaching his fork into another dish. “And sit down already, Ulric. Just watching you stand makes me tired.”

He got halfway up his chair to lean over and pull out a seat, patting the cushion with one hand. “Now get over here.”

  


 

It was well over twenty minutes when he looked at the various dishes, all at least half-eaten or gone, when Nyx realized he had been _tricked_.

Noctis had practically _fed him by hand,_ carefully picking at each dish to slowly chisel away at the small buffet, and Nyx had been none the wiser. Nyx, hero of the frontlines, a fierce warrior who hailed from Galahd, member of His Majesty’s own Kingsglaive, got swindled into eating from the Prince’s own palm by the conniving little thing himself.  

Nyx, however, didn’t have the nerves to call Noctis out on it, unsure if he really wanted to acknowledge the situation; so he kept his mouth shut, except for when he opened it to receive a fork full of something, and suffered from the embarrassment in silence. Noctis, he knew, was aware of the man’s sudden revelation, the only hint the self-satisfying quirk of his lips. And Nyx wanted to shrivel up and sink into the floor, fighting the urge to swipe one of the forks, toss it at the wall, and warp out of the Prince’s windows and suffer whatever consequences that would come from it. He was confident he was violating at least four rules of _something_ by just sitting here.

“Well,” Nyx said, clearing his throat. “I’m pretty sure I should be getting back to my post.”

“Sure, last one then.” Noctis merely hummed, cutting his fork into a small slice of cake.

Fighting back a sigh, Nyx took the final offered bite. It was almost too sweet for his tastes, but the off-season berries were just tart enough to keep the careful balance. He swallowed it quickly, standing from his seat before Noctis thought to feed him one last time. “Alright, Your Highness,” he said, clearing his throat, “You know where to find me.”

“You do that, hero,” Noctis said, waving a hand and dismissing the Glaive, the other hand going for the remaining cake.

Nyx was halfway to the doors when he heard the soft scrape of a chair against the floor, and he turned to see Noctis walking toward him.

“Wait, hold on.” Noctis stopped just before him, lifting himself onto his tiptoes.

Nyx thought his heart skipped a beat, when Noctis swiped a thumb across the Glaive's lips, a small smear of sweet cream coming up on his finger. And if he was doubtful before, Nyx was certain as all hell that his heart stopped when a pink tongue darted out to lick the wayward cream off.

“See you tomorrow?” he asked, peering at Nyx through long lashes and half-lidded eyes.

_This little minx._

“Yeah, uh — yeah, sure, see you tomorrow. Yep. Tomorrow.” His voice came out thin, but Nyx was just proud his voice didn't crack like his composure, because boy, was it fissuring like the ground beneath Titan’s feet. Before the heat rising to his cheeks could be made apparent in a pink blush, he quickly yanked on the door and slipped out, slumping his back onto the wall once he was back outside in the safety of the halls.

It was only then he realized that ‘see you tomorrow’ meant another lunch date in the Prince's quarters.

 _‘Ah, hell.’_ He internally sighed, dragging both hands down his face.

Something told him he should _not_ be blushing like some virgin maiden, or feeling giddy like a teenager going to his first date. He was a grown-ass man! A fearsome Glaive who laughed in the face of death! A temporary, glorified babysitter who would fight off behemoths to keep his charge safe! But here he was, embarrassment crawling up his skin and digging itself underneath the ink of his tattoos. He didn't even want to think about the butterflies tickling his stomach. Didn't want to admit that maybe, just maybe, he kind of, sort of, just possibly was looking forward to another lunch date. Definitely not.

Nope.

 

Okay, yeah. Nyx was fucked.


End file.
